


Conduct Unbecoming

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [23]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Bad Advice, Boys Being Boys, Brothers, Central Intelligence Agency, Crossover, Gen, Inappropriate Erections, Innuendo, Locker Room Talk, Plans For The Future, Separated Twins, Snark, Teasing, Trouble At Work, Twins, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 03:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.Each installment in theseriestells the story of a moment in the twins' lives. Some are humorous, some are serious. They are all more or less standalone, but interconnect and refer to each other.William is having some trouble at work. He asks Kirill for advice, which quickly turns out to be a mistake.Takes place in late April 2012.





	Conduct Unbecoming

He was in hell.

Total, absolute, _utter_ hell.

And this time, unlike the mess with the Stantons twelve months before, the situation wasn't even _remotely_ his fault. As far as he knew, other than being heterosexual and having a pulse, he'd done nothing to deserve his fate.

He needed help.

Mike would usually be his first port of call, but he couldn't go to her with something like this. Even her usually boundless compassion had limits.

He couldn't really talk to any of his work colleagues, either. No matter how trustworthy they were, no matter how much they promised to keep his confession to themselves, with something _this_ juicy, whatever he told them, no matter how politely he phrased it, by the end of the day, everyone else on the fifth floor would know. By the following morning, his bosses would know. That would certainly solve his immediate problem, but leave him with a whole new bigger problem to deal with instead.

He _could_ call Kirill.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. His brother worked in the same building, in a window cubicle down on three, and had security clearance for William's floor. Kirill could come up to his office to see the source of his torment for himself. He might even have some useful advice on how to handle the problem. 'Might' being the critical word. Based on past discussions on similar topics, William wasn't counting on it.

But Kirill at least knew how to be discreet. Yes, he would snicker, yes, he would judge, and yes, he would mercilessly tease, but as all three of his bosses to date had learned, he absolutely wouldn't talk, not even if his bonus and pension depended on it. If loose lips sank ships, Kirill could keep the U.S. Navy afloat.

William picked up the phone to dial his brother's extension.

Someone answered after three rings. "What do you want?" Kirill curtly asked.

"Well, hello to you, too," William said. Someone had apparently rolled out of the wrong side of his cage this morning.

Kirill sighed. "Sorry," he said. "I am not having a very good day."

"Yeah, me neither. What's causing you grief?"

"If it would not be too much trouble, I think I would like to kill my new boss."

William had seen that outcome coming since he'd read the HR release, but at least Kirill's reaction had taken more than a week to set in. "So, Ibanez isn't working out for you?" he said. He'd worked with Ibanez himself on a special project a few years ago, so knew exactly what kind of pain his brother was feeling.

"She micro-manages," Kirill complained. "I cannot even go to the john without her telling me how many sheets of paper to use and in which direction to wipe."

Same old Ibanez.

William closed the report he'd been reading. "So, what’re you gonna do about it?"

"I just said that I would like to kill her."

"I feel you, but it might not go down too well with the folks on the seventh floor." And it certainly wouldn't add anything good to Kirill's upcoming mid-year review. Killing your micro-managing boss was absolutely _not_ an example of how to be an effective team player.

"It is getting to the point where I think I would rather be sent back to Russia."

"You could always check the internal job listings, apply for a role in another group."

Kirill huffed. "I cannot ask for a transfer yet," he muttered. "Not until the end of August at least."

The CIA's conditions, of course. Spend two years in a dull-as-fuck job at the bottom end of the GS5 scale, achieve at least a 'Good' in both of his end-of-year reviews, learn a minimum of one new mission-critical language and continually pass a quarterly psychiatric assessment. If Kirill made it to the end of August with green checkmarks in all of those boxes (and so far, he was on the right track), _then_ he could ask for something better.

William suspected that two year deadline couldn't come soon enough. "August is only four months away. Just keep your head down, smile politely and do whatever the hell she says. Four months'll be over in no time at all." Especially given what was going on for Kirill at home. Approximately ten weeks from now, his life was going to change in an even more nerve-wracking way.

"Easy to say when you are the one giving the orders. Not so easy when you are the one on the other end of the stick."

"Kir, you survived twelve years in the Russian Army, including a decade in Special Forces. Even with a micro-manager in charge, four months in a group as uneventful as yours should be a walk in the park."

"I suppose you are right."

"I _know_ I'm right."

"So, why are _you_ having a terrible morning?"

William sighed. "Cus I think I'm in hell."

"Did someone give you another binder full of ITIL documents to review?"

William shook his head, not that Kirill could see. “Something more tangible than that.”

“Tangible?”

“Tangible, yeah. Something I could touch."

Could, but unless he wanted to fuck up his marriage, career and life, absolutely wouldn't.

“What on earth are you talking about?"

William checked the clock; it was about to turn twelve. "You know how they say a picture paints a thousand words?"

"Yes?"

"How about instead of me explaining it to you over the phone, you come upstairs and have lunch with me, see my problem for yourself?"

"Did you bring your lunch in with you?"

"I didn't, no." Mike had made a pasta thing for him, but Tatiana had woken up in one of her grumpy, obstinate moods. He'd been so focused on keeping his daughter in line and getting her ready for the school bus, he'd forgotten all about his lunch, left the damn thing in the fridge.

"Which means you want me to go to the canteen to buy you lunch and then bring it to you."

"Exercise'll do you good. And I _really_ need your help on this one."

Kirill sighed, accepting his errand boy fate. "What do you want me to buy?"

"Get one of the large boxes of salad, one of the foot-long smoked meat baguettes, two sets of cutlery, we'll divide it all between us."

"As long as I can have the pickle."

William half-grimaced, half-grinned. From anyone else, it would be a ridiculous, entendre-laden demand, but from Kirill—a man who treated his onions and pickles almost as a life-or-death matter—the warning was very much the real deal.

"I promise you can have the pickle," he said. "But get the salad with ranch, okay?"

Fifteen minutes later, Kirill appeared at his office door, one hand holding a box of salad, the other clutching a large baguette wrapped in a pair of paper napkins. He nodded a greeting and strode in to set the box and baguette on the desk, followed by two sets of plastic utensils, which he pulled out of his back trouser pocket.

"They were out of smoked meat, so I bought a ham and swiss one instead," he said.

William gestured for him to close the door, Kirill leaned out to push it shut.

"So," Kirill said, handing one napkin and set of utensils to William and keeping the other of both for himself. "Why are you in hell?"

William scanned the glass wall of his office, and the row of desks on the other side. Two of them were occupied—Priyanka and Dean preferred to take a late lunch—but the Torment Desk had nobody at it. "Can’t show you right now. You’ll have to wait a few minutes."

Kirill shrugged, unwrapped the sandwich, picked up his knife, carefully sliced through the baguette and curled his fingers around the near half.

"The _hell_ do you think you're doing?" William asked.

Kirill frowned. "Taking my half of the sandwich."

"Nuh uh, you know the rule,” William said, wagging a finger at Kirill. “Whoever cuts, the other one chooses." A rule their mother had created for them as kids—her way of keeping their territorial fistfights in check—but that Kirill, now as then, had always been quite good at ‘forgetting’.

"Fine," Kirill huffed, pushing the baguette halves away. "Then _you_ choose."

William leaned in to examine the sub from all possible angles, trying to decide if one of the halves was even a tiny bit bigger or better filled than the other. To his surprise, Kirill seemed to have divided the sandwich precisely in two.

Maybe you _could_ teach a bad dog some new tricks.

William claimed the near side of the sandwich.

With the mildest of disapproving glares, Kirill pulled the other half into his napkin and dropped into the visitor chair.

A minute and twenty three seconds later, the object of William's torment appeared.

He jabbed an index finger at her. "There," he said. "That's why I'm in hell."

Kirill followed his finger. "_Bozhe moi_," he muttered, jaw falling open, eyes going wide in a mixture of amazement and shock. "Who the fuck is _that_?"

"_That_ is my new Political Analyst," William revealed. "Fresh out of Princeton with a Master's degree."

"In what?" Kirill asked around a mouthful of bread. "Having the world's nicest and perkiest pair of tits?"

As it happened, in Political Science, not that Kirill would care. "You see my problem, then?"

"I certainly do." Kirill paused to chew and swallow. "What age is she?"

"Just turned twenty-four."

Kirill shrugged. "So, you are not quite old enough to be her father, but you are getting close."

"Tell me about it. I feel like a dirty old man."

On the other side of the glass, the object of their attention turned and leaned across a desk to grab a file from the top of a stack. Her knee-length, pencil-style grey skirt stretched tight across her rear and rode up a couple of inches.

Kirill coughed as he choked his food; his brows almost shot off his head. "Mother of God, never mind the perky tits, would you look at that _ass_?"

"I'm trying not to," William muttered. He cracked the lid on the box of salad, found the packet of dressing, tore it in half, distributed it as well as he could, then speared a fork-full of ranch-covered rocket and shoved it into his mouth. "I'm trying to remember I'm thirty-nine and a _very_ happily married man."

"Looking is not the same thing as touching, and married is not the same thing as dead."

"You forget the bit where I'm her boss, and she's an extremely intelligent, highly-qualified member of my team?" William said. "We have a Code of Personal Conduct, and I'm a team leader, which means I'm supposed to set a good example for other people. Even if I was thirty and single, I _still_ shouldn't be thinking about her that way."

"What is her name?"

"Samantha."

"Sexy Samantha," Kirill murmured. He took another bite of his sub. "Is _she_ single?"

Of all the questions his brother could ask…

"Why the fuck does that matter?" William said.

"Just curious."

"Don't be. The answer's irrelevant. You're ten weeks away from becoming a father."

"That does not mean I am not allowed to admire a beautiful pair of tits."

"Uh, yeah, unless the tits in question are your pregnant girlfriend’s, I think it actually does?"

Kirill huffed. "You are no fun."

"I'm a Section Chief with the CIA. I'm legally not allowed to be fun."

"When did she start?"

“Last Monday. She’s been here for almost six months, transferred in from McGavin’s group on two.”

"You could always transfer her back," Kirill suggested.

William shook his head. “Not a chance. If I did that, I'd basically be telling my boss I think she's terrible at her job. And she doesn't deserve that."

Kirill snickered. "I think I know _exactly_ what Sexy Samantha deserves."

"Okay, wherever you're planning to go with that, could you just _not_?"

"Don't pretend you have not had the same thoughts yourself."

That was the problem—William had, far more frequently and creatively than he or his right hand cared to admit. "My point stands. If I send her back to her old team, she'll get the blame. Which isn't fair."

"And the CIA is _nothing_ if not fair."

"It’s been pretty fair to you."

Kirill waved the comment away. "We both know the Company got as much out of my legal arrangement as I did.”

“I meant what you did to that vending machine last month. Destruction of company property’s usually a firing offence. Can’t believe your HR rep let you off with a slap on the wrist.”

“What can I say? Wendy has a soft spot for me.”

William didn’t want to know what _that_ meant.

“And that vending machine was a piece of shit,” Kirill added. “Everyone in the whole building has been dying to do what I did. _Including_ Wendy.”

“True,” William said, thinking about all the bags of Reese's Pieces the stupid machine had ‘stolen’ from him.

Kirill set his sandwich down on the desk and pulled the box of salad towards him. "If you cannot force Samantha to leave the team, there is another solution," he said, rummaging around for the pickle and spearing it firmly with his fork.

"What's that?"

"You could leave the team instead."

"Uh, yeah, cus that's gonna go over _so_ well with my wife." William pretended to talk on the phone. "Hey, hon, thought you should know, I just walked off the job cus my new analyst has a beautiful ass and a _really_ distracting pair of tits. What's that, we're having chicken for dinner? Great, love you, see you at six."

"If you won't send _Samantha_ away, and you won't send _yourself_ away, you will simply have to wait for the problem to pass."

William reached out to scoop another forkful of salad. "Figured that."

"Just try not to go blind from all the self-abuse you will need to get through it."

"You know, it's moments like this that make me wish Landy had left you to die in that tunnel."

Kirill grinned. "You love me, really."

"Not when you make a comment like that, I don’t."

"There is one sure way to work Samantha out of your system."

Against his better judgement, William asked, "What's that?"

"Have sex with her."

Only hunger prevented William from throwing the salad at Kirill's head. "Okay, but did you miss the bit where I mentioned I'm a happily married man?"

"No."

"You're completely serious, aren't you?"

"Viko, what are the five things I never make jokes about?"

Jesus, not the 'serious business' lecture again. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, William raised his left hand to count the items on his fingers. "Sex, money, alcohol, weapons and the proper way to make an Olivier Salad."

"Do not roll your eyes at me," Kirill warned, waving the pickle at William’s face. "Those are all extremely serious topics. _Especially_ the salad one. I once threatened to kill a man because he served me a version with olives in it."

William threw up his hands. "Okay, fine, you're serious."

"I am, yes."

"So, you're honestly telling me you think I should try to get over how attractive my new analyst is by _sleeping_ with her?"

"Don't think _sleeping_ with her would do you much good, but balling her into next week?" Kirill gave an emphatic nod. "Absolutely."

"For the third and last time, except that _I'm married_."

"Then ask Michelle."

This was going from bad to worse. "Lemme get this straight." When William spoke next, it was slowly and clearly, with stress points in all the right places, as if he was talking to a child. Which, in some ways, he was. "You want me to _ask my wife_ if I can _have sex_ with _another woman_?"

"Yes," Kirill said, as if seeking your spouse's approval to cheat was a regular, every day matter.

William scanned his brother's face, looking for a gleam in his eye or a lip gently twitching. His search came up blank—Kirill wasn't kidding. Calmly, he asked, "Kir, can I ask a question?"

“Is it about my sex life?”

“No.”

“Is it about _your_ sex life?”

“No.”

"Then of course you can."

"How are you even alive? Why has nobody murdered you for the sake of the gene pool and humanity's future?"

Kirill shrugged and bit off the end of the pickle. "Many have tried. All have failed."

But Jason Bourne had come very close…

"You're full of shit, you know," William said.

"How so?"

"You say I should ask Michelle, but we both know there's no way in hell you would ever ask Kate if our roles were reversed."

"Yes, I would."

"Nuh uh. Not a chance." Mike was scary enough when her temper got going, but Kate was on a whole ‘nother level. Mike usually turned snarky and cold, snipped at and patronised you until you threw up your hands in defeat; Kate preferred to bawl people out at the top of her lungs while using their head (or balls) for target practice. Kirill had learned that lesson the hard way after his Venezuela mistake, when Kate had pretty much destroyed every mug and plate in the house.

"What if I told you I have already asked her?"

William's brain quietly broke. Maybe in his brother's world, this _was_ a regular, every day matter. "Okay, _what_?"

"I have already asked Kate if I could sleep with another woman."

"And?"

Kirill’s cheeks reddened slightly. "She did not express her answer verbally, but it was a very definite _no_."

William snorted. "You mean, she threw something at you."

"Two things, actually. One very heavy, one very sharp, both of which I was barely able to dodge. Oh, and then she slapped me for good measure. And made me go without sex for a week."

"Only a week?" For daring to ask a question like that, Michelle would punish him for at _least_ a month. And likely banish him to the basement suite for good measure. Or maybe even the shed.

Kirill bit off another chunk of his pickle. "It would have been longer, but she went out for drinks with some people from work, turned up at my place slightly drunk and _extremely_ horny, wanting to have sex in the shower."

"Jesus, she's as bad as you are," William muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And what the fuck is it with you two and showers?" Not that he and Mike had never tried that themselves—they’d once gotten so carried away they’d knocked a sliding shower door panel right out of the bottom rail—but with Kirill and Kate, it seemed to be a regular thing.

"We are efficient. We like to get clean and filthy at the same time."

"Efficient, right."

"Not _my_ fault you never have sex anywhere exciting."

"I'm too old to be exciting."

Kirill wagged a finger at him. "Age is only a number, Viko. Stop worrying about what is appropriate, do whatever your blood supply and your knees will allow."

"When was this?"

“When was what?”

“You asking Kate if you could sleep with another woman.” Hopefully, more than four months ago. As oblivious to relationship norms as Kirill could sometimes be, surely even _he_ wouldn't be so dense as to put a question like that to the woman who was having his child?

"Last summer, around the time Morana turned up."

"So, before you tried to take a long vacation to Venezuela?"

Kirill's blush deepened; he cleared his throat. "Before that, yes."

"Guess you won't be asking again anytime soon, huh?"

"Never say never."

The man was incorrigible. "Anyone ever told you, you're a real piece of work?"

"Thank you, and many times, yes."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

"Who was the woman, by the way? The one you asked for permission to sleep with?"

"The redhead who worked in the bar next to my old apartment."

That rang a bell. "The one with the thing through her tongue and the legs all the way up to her ears?"

"That one, yes."

Kirill might be incorrigible, but William couldn't fault his taste. "If I wasn't married, and ten years younger, and I didn't mind maybe having to go for a rabies shot after, I'd try my luck with her myself."

"I still think you should try your luck with Samantha," Kirill said.

"Yeah, well. You still think _Star Wars_ is a better movie than _The Empire Strikes Back_."

In William's opinion, an error of judgement he couldn't forgive.

"I am an originalist, what can I say?"

"Don't think that's what originalism means."

"Really?"

"Nope."

Kirill shrugged. "Please report it to someone who cares."

Grinning, William picked up his sandwich. Before he took a bite, he cracked it open just enough to check there were no animal droppings or cockroaches in it. One could never be too careful with food from a government-run canteen. "You ever deal with a problem like this yourself?" he asked, using the sub to point at Samantha as she strode briskly away from her desk, moving like a woman with somewhere important to be.

"All the time, back when I worked for the FSB. Most of the agents were men, but most of the admin staff were women."

"You ever have your own admin assistant?"

Kirill shook his head. "Was never senior enough. But all of my bosses did."

"How'd you handle it when one of the assistants was hot?"

"Usually by taking them home and fucking them senseless over the back of my sofa."

William grunted and squeezed his eyes shut. There was an image he didn't need. "I don't know why I even asked."

"What can I say? I like to fuck."

"Yeah, except there's liking, and there's _liking_."

"Not my fault you are not as good at fucking as me."

"Says _who_?"

Kirill shrugged, finished his pickle and turned his attention back to his sandwich.

William rapped a nail on the desk. "Okay, _bratishka_, you have two seconds to explain what the fuck that meant."

"Or, _what_?" Kirill challenged.

"Or I might have to introduce your face to the floor."

Kirill sneered. "You can try, but we both know that you would fail."

That was the problem—William probably would. He and Kirill still hadn't come to no-holds-barred blows, partly because Michelle had warned him not to on pain of divorce and/or cancellation of health insurance, but mostly because they both had a sense of how it would end.

William knew he was good—he'd made a point of not letting go of the training he'd received in the Corps, and Kordesky's punishing hand-to-hand courses had honed his talents even further—but he was no match for a former Spetsnaz assassin, even one with two metal pins in his leg. Which meant it would likely be his face, not Kirill's, that went on an intimate date with the floor.

Fortunately, there were other, less physical ways to persuade his recalcitrant brother to talk.

"Fine. Don't tell me what you meant."

"Thank you. I believe I will not."

William picked up the phone. "But if you're not gonna talk, I might have to call Kate and tell her you've got a raging hard-on for a woman at work."

Kirill made an offended sound. “_You_ are the one with the hard-on for Samantha. Not me.”

“But _you're_ the one who thinks she has the world's perkiest pair of tits.”

“She does. But Kate will not care.”

"You sure about that?" William asked, cranking the handle another turn. He probably couldn't beat his brother in a hands-on, physical fight, but he could damn well give him a run for his money on the psychological front. "When she’s almost seven months pregnant? And probably starting to feel a little self-conscious about her weight? She won’t care that you like the look of another woman’s tits? Another younger, _prettier_ woman's tits?”

Kirill set his mouth in a hard line. "She is _not_ prettier than Kate. And you are not being fair about what I said."

"Since when is life supposed to be fair?"

"Viko, why the _fuck_ do you care what my comment meant?"

"Uh, maybe because it was about _me_?"

"No, it was not."

Blood pressure rising, William slammed the phone back in the cradle. "Kir, you said it wasn't your fault I'm not as good at fucking as you. How is that comment _not_ about me?"

Kirill's expression turned soothing. "Apologies, _brat_. Sometimes, my language skills desert me. Perhaps 'good' was the wrong word to use. Perhaps ‘skilled’ would have been a better choice."

"Skilled?"

"Experienced. Practiced. Expert. Proficient." Kirill shrugged and ate the last bite of his sandwich. "You decide what word works best."

"So, what you're saying is, that remark was really about how many women we've slept with?" Another fight William knew he would lose. He'd seen his fair share of bedroom action before he'd married Michelle, but the pre-Bourne version of his brother had apparently waged the sexual equivalent of a World War…

"If that is how you interpret it, yes."

"You do realize, that's not even remotely important? That quantity and quality don't always go hand in hand?"

"Next, you will be telling me that size does not matter, either."

"Uh, except it doesn't?"

"Only men who have very small penises say that."

William flashed a smug smile. "Take your word for it. I wouldn't know."

"Don't be such an infant."

"You started it."

“Did not.”

“Did _too_.”

Kirill huffed. “Are we really going to do this right now?”

“When would you rather do it?”

“We should not discuss such matters at work,” Kirill said, suddenly Mister Formal and Proper. He waved at the wall, drawing attention to the fact Samantha had returned to her desk, carrying an armful of binders. “Especially around Miss”—he furrowed his brows—“what is her second name?”

“Harlan.”

“Especially around Miss Harlan.”

“Office is sound-proofed, so not like she can hear what we’re saying.”

“She might be a lip-reader.”

“It's not on her resumé, so _highly_ unlikely. And even if she was, I doubt she’d pay the slightest bit of attention to us. She’s smart, gorgeous and twenty-four. Why the hell would she want to listen to a couple of grouchy, middle-aged men talking about their dicks?”

"_I_ am not middle-aged," Kirill protested.

But he _was_ grouchy.

"Kir…"

“And she would probably pay attention to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I would be talking about how well my dick works,” was Kirill’s unbearably smug response. “She might be so impressed by what she heard, she would want to try it out for herself.”

William shook his head. Another day, another one of Kirill's delusional moments. “Nuh uh. Absolutely _not_ gonna happen. Not even if yours was the last dick left on the whole planet."

“You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do.”

“You may be Samantha’s boss, but you do not control her. And you are not _my_ boss. You cannot tell me what to do.”

“Kir, I wouldn’t _dream_ of telling you what to do.”

“Good.”

“I’ll leave that to Kate."

Or, to Mike. Or, even better, to Kate and Mike together.

Kirill’s glare was spiteful. “Has anyone ever told you what a tedious asshole you are?”

“Takes one to know one, _brat_.”

Muttering curses under his breath, Kirill yanked the box of salad towards him. As he stabbed a baby carrot, he sighed, and his glare softened into a smile. “You _do_ know I am only kidding?” he said.

“About me being a tedious asshole?"

“About wanting to have sex with Samantha.”

"Should fucking hope so." William had been pretty sure, but it was nice to have his suspicions confirmed. Pre-Bourne Kirill would likely have meant every word, but post-Bourne Kirill was a new man—a man who was gradually learning how to care about people, and how to maintain open, honest relationships with them. He still had his grumpy caveman moments—shooting up a vending machine, threatening to kill his new boss, showing children how to throw knives—but they were slowly becoming rarer and rarer. And most of that was due to Kate and Mike—the two sisters had done more to help him evolve and improve than any number of CIA doctors and lawyers.

“Don’t get me wrong, she is _extremely_ attractive.”

"I've noticed," said William drily.

"But not as attractive as Kate."

"Of course not."

“If I was single, I would take a different approach," Kirill added.

William sighed. "You and me both, _brat_."

"But you are married, and I am as good as married, so we both know better than to even _imagine_ what it would be like to have sex with her."

Except William had already imagined enough on that topic to fill three comprehensive reports. In 3D technicolour with full surround sound. His groin threatened to stir, reminding him to keep his thoughts moving.

As good as married, Kirill had said. Was now a good time to tackle _that_ issue? He and Mike had tried to raise it on several occasions, sometimes with Kate, sometimes with Kirill, sometimes with both of them together, but their questions had always been politely but firmly rebuffed. They'd eventually stopped asking for fear of causing offense, assuming Kirill was the main block, and that he simply needed more time to figure things out. If he thought of himself as almost married, did that mean he was finally ready to take the next step? Was it safe to raise the question again?

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

William plucked a cherry tomato out of the salad and popped it into his mouth. "While we're on the subject of marriage," he started, taking care to keep his tone light.

"What about it?" Kirill asked, eyes narrowing again, shoulder muscles tensing slightly.

"Have you and Kate given any more thought to sealing the deal? Going for _actual_ married instead?"

Kirill carefully bit through the carrot—William could almost hear him trying to choose between fight or flight. Fortunately, he chose a third, less obstinate option. Sighing, he nodded and said, "We have actually talked about it a lot."

"And?"

"And we are going to get married, but not until after the baby is born."

Kate's parents were going to love that. And Mike was going to laugh herself silly. "Any particular reason?"

"Kate knows I don't want a fuss, and is happy to do something quiet and simple with family and a few close friends, as long as she can wear a nice dress."

"How nice are we talking?"

"She mentioned someone called Vera Wang?"

William let out a low whistle. "That's pretty nice." But Kate could afford it. Or, rather, Kate’s family trust could afford it. Only the best for Andrew McNally's girls.

"I know nothing about bridal fashion, so I will take your word for it."

“So, Kate wants to put off the wedding to give her time to get back in shape.”

“I believe so, yes.” Kirill shrugged. “Not that she seems to me to be _out_ of shape. Yes, she has put on some weight, but she _is_ having a baby.”

William worded his next question with care. "And you're sure it's what you want to do?"

“You mean get married?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” was Kirill’s simple response.

"You're not gonna develop cold feet, decide you're better off on your own and leave Kate crying at the altar?" Or the desk, or the bench, or whatever piece of furniture the two of them got married in front of. Given the religious divide—Kate was Catholic (in theory) while Kirill preferred the Orthodox Church—an altar would be a difficult choice.

"Of course not."

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Cus if you do, Kate will make me hunt you down and kill you.” And knowing her temper, not in a painless or pretty way. To keep her appeased, sensitive body parts would have to be severed.

“Viko, you could not hunt me down and kill me if I was hog-tied and painted bright red.”

“Maybe,” William calmly said, thinking he’d done a pretty good job of finding Kirill last September at Dulles. “But who says it would be me on your tail? I might hire someone even better than you to do my dirty work for me.”

“You _are_ a Team Leader. Cleaning work is now beneath you.”

“Exactly."

Kirill's tone was thoughtful. "It must be nice, to be the man who has useful people, instead of being the useful person another man has."

"Can't complain. Pay's better. Haven't ruined a suit in months."

Thoughtful turned to dismissive. "But you are absolutely _fooling_ yourself if you think any of the useful people you have are anywhere _near_ as good as me."

“Jesus, Kir, modest much?”

"Modest, no. Honest, yes."

Someone knocked on the office door—three short, authoritative raps.

"Come in," William called out. He sat up straight, smoothed down his tie and set what was left of his sandwich aside.

The door swung open to reveal none other than Samantha. "Sorry to interrupt your lunch, was wondering if you could spare a second to sign something for me?" she asked, raising an inch-thick, beige and black file.

William waved her forward and grabbed a pen. "Sure, no problem, come on in."

Smiling, she turned to acknowledge his guest. It was only when she visibly jumped and reflex-clutched the file to her chest that William remembered he hadn't yet told her he had a twin brother who also worked for the CIA, and who sometimes stopped by his office to chat.

Time to put that lapse to rights.

William gestured from Samantha to Kirill. "Samantha, this is my twin brother, Kirill. He works in the Linguistics Analysis group on three." Then, from Kirill back to Samantha. "Kirill this is Samantha Harlan. She's my new Political Analyst, been at Langley for almost six months, but just joined my team last week."

Samantha smiled again and held out a perfectly manicured hand. "Very nice to meet you, Kirill. Sorry if I looked a little bit startled there. Thought for a moment my eyes were playing tricks on me."

Pausing to wipe his fingers on his napkin, Kirill took and firmly shook the hand. "Very nice to meet you, too, Samantha." He flashed a disturbingly charming smile—the kind of smile that made it easy to understand how he'd managed to conquer so many women. "And don't worry, that happens a lot."

"I can imagine."

"How are you settling in?" Kirill asked.

"Pretty well so far. There's a lot to learn, but it's really interesting work, and everyone on the team's been great."

A side of Kirill's mouth curled up. "I hope William has not been _too hard_ on you."

Dirty goddamn fucker…

Samantha's gaze slid sideways to William; the smile that followed was _scrupulously_ diplomatic. "I can't complain. He's been pretty easy to deal with so far."

"He is extremely food motivated," Kirill revealed, tapping on the box of salad. "If you ever need something from him, either ask him after lunch, or give him a Snickers bar before you start talking. Once he has eaten, he is much easier to manage."

Samantha bit down on a grin. "I'll remember that, thank you."

William made a mental note to wreak his revenge on Kirill later. Not that Kirill’s claim was wrong. He _was_ extremely food motivated—it had always been what he turned to when he was stressed or worried. But, as his wife always said, better food than something less pleasant—sex, money, violence, power. He cleared his throat. “So, what is it you need me to sign?” he said to Samantha, pointing his eyes at the file.

Samantha blinked, briefly caught off guard by his candor, recovered like a pro and held the file out. "Simon from the Analytic Methodology team just sent this over, says it needs your signature ASAP."

William took the file from her, opened it to check the first page. A red box in the lower right corner that should have been filled in was blank. He closed the file and held it out to give it back. "You need to have Jackie in Cyber Analysis sign this first. I can't sign it until I know she's reviewed it."

"Yeah, except I took it over to her, and she said _she_ can't sign until she knows _you've_ reviewed it."

William cursed under his breath. The usual, dick-swinging CIA crap. He laid the file on his desk. "Leave it with me. I'm in a meeting with Jackie at three. I'll talk to her about it then."

"Okay, that's great, thanks." Mission accomplished or, at the very least, offloaded, Samantha turned to make for the door. She’d barely gone two steps when she paused to turn back to Kirill. “You're in the Linguistics Analysis group."

“That is correct.”

“So, you probably speak a few languages then?”

“Nine and counting.”

“That’s pretty impressive.”

Compliments from an attractive young woman, oh, God…

Fortunately, or maybe because William was present, Kirill kept his response to a modest shrug. “Some of my co-workers speak even more.”

“By any chance, do you speak German?”

“Fluently, yes," Kirill said.

Samantha casually folded her arms, and the smile she gave Kirill was cautious, as if she was worried she was about to annoy him. “I, uh, I don’t suppose you offer lessons?” Kirill opened his mouth to respond, but Samantha kept going. “Because I’d _really_ like to apply for a posting at the Berlin Station in a couple of years, but I’ve heard it’s _super_-competitive, and that I won’t have a hope in hell of being selected if I don’t speak the language.”

This was a subject to which William could speak. He'd worked in a few stations himself, and had seen a few more from the MSG side during his time in the Corps. "It _is_ super-competitive,” he said. “All the major stations in Europe are. The only station you’d be considered for without a second language is London. And that’s _incredibly_ competitive.“ He had no idea why. The food was shit and the weather sucked.

“Which means I need to learn German,” Samantha concluded, turning her gaze back to Kirill. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I, uh, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help?”

William answered for Kirill again. “Unless it’s a course organized through work, probably not, no. He and his girlfriend are about to have their first child, so he’s not gonna have a lot of free time on his hands.” He smiled at Kirill, sending a _very_ clear message—no non-work contact with Sexy Samantha.

“Okay, yeah, you’re gonna be busy,” Samantha said, grinning. “When’s the baby due?”

“At the end of June.” A smile spread across Kirill’s face—gloating, vengeful, wicked, scheming. “But if you want to learn German so you can apply for a job in Berlin, you don’t need _me_.” He turned to aim the smile at William. “You should ask your boss for lessons instead."

Evil, dirty, _twisted_ fucker…

“Oh, so, you speak German as well?” Samantha asked him, brows shooting up.

William nodded—reluctantly—but it was Kirill who answered. “And even better, he speaks _Berlinisch_.”

Samantha frowned. “Is that, like, a dialect or something?”

“It’s the version of German they speak in the city and the surrounding Brandenburg region,” William explained. “Can be difficult for non-Berliners to understand.”

“How did you learn it?”

“The person who taught me German came from Berlin, so I picked it up from them.” Not an outright lie, but Samantha wasn’t exactly a friend, so she didn’t need to know the person in question was their grandmother. Or, that he and Kirill had both spoken flawless _Berlinisch_ as children, having been born and (for a time) raised in the city.

“Any chance you’d be willing to help me instead?” Samantha asked, her features open and free of guile. “Over a lunch hour sometime, or maybe after work?” She shrugged. “Nothing complicated. Just some pointers on where and how to get started.”

William took her enquiry at face value.

His dick didn't.

Jesus. This was all he needed. Ten years married, a wife, two kids, leading a CIA team of twelve people, five weeks away from hitting the big four-oh, popping a hard-on in his office at the thought of giving his hot new hire some private, after-hours 'language' lessons. Thank God he was sitting down—his desk hid his transgression.

William shifted in his seat and told his dick to shut the fuck up. He reminded it that if he was going to have a midlife crisis, he would do it the old-fashioned way, by splashing out on a flashy car, growing a handlebar moustache or getting another tattoo. Not by having a career- and marriage-ending affair with a hot-as-molten-metal blonde almost young enough to be his daughter.

From the judging smirk on Kirill’s face, his brother knew _exactly_ what physical struggle William was facing. William shot dagger eyes back, silently telling his twin ‘fuck you' and 'I will kick your sorry ass later’.

“To be honest, you’re probably better off signing up for one of the Company's formal courses through the Academy portal," William said. "Just because I speak a foreign language doesn’t mean I know how to teach it to other people.” He smiled politely to soften the blow. “Sorry.”

“No problem. Hope I didn’t offend you."

“Not at all. We encourage people to learn new skills, and there’s never any harm in asking.”

“That's what my mom always says." Samantha smiled. "Okay, well, sorry again for interrupting, enjoy the rest of your lunch.” She nodded a silent goodbye to Kirill and headed back to her desk, gently pulling the office door over behind her.

Once she was gone, Kirill turned to say, “I think she wants you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Viko, she asked you to give her private language lessons. In my book, that is practically _begging_ for sex.”

“Your book's a work of fiction. You’ve been reading too many James Bond novels."

“I bet she is an amazing lay.”

“Please stop talking,” William pleaded. This was neither the time nor the place for his brother to have another one of his caveman moments.

“She probably has a mouth on her that can wake the dead.”

Sadly, William's dick agreed.

“You say one more word, I’m gonna shoot you in the face,” William warned, aiming the words at his errant member just as much as his troglodyte brother. “Talking about a co-worker like that's _highly_ unprofessional behaviour.”

Kirill sneered. “And shooting your boss in the head is not?”

“That was different.”

“How?” Kirill held up a warning finger. “And if you say ‘it just was', I will stab you in the balls with a fork.”

“If I hadn’t shot Cynthia, innocent people would have died. If you don’t talk dirty about Samantha, nothing remotely bad happens.”

Kirill sniffed. “Maybe. But at least I did not lie to her.”

“When the fuck did I lie to Samantha?”

“When you told her you don't know how to teach someone a language.”

“I don’t.”

“Except Michelle told me that when you were in college, you earned money by helping out at a language school near her work."

He'd forgotten about his job at the school. So much had happened since then—it felt like a lifetime ago. “I was only a classroom assistant. I wasn’t the actual teacher.”

“Of course." Kirill's answer dripped scorn. "And when I was in the Russian Army, I was only a simple soldier.”

“You got the simple part right.”

Kirill’s response this time was a stiff middle finger.

William ate the last bite of his sandwich and dusted the crumbs from his fingers. He gestured at the box of salad. "You want any more?"

Kirill shook his head. "You have the rest." He checked his watch. "I should probably head back to my desk soon. I have a team meeting at one I need to do some final prep for."

"You giving a presentation?"

"The safety moment."

William grunted. This was the Company's latest thing—making them open every meeting of more than three people with a brief safety review. All because some asshole in the Seattle office had used a fork to fish his bagel out of an active toaster, with predictably destructive results. "What's it gonna be about?"

"An overview of what protective equipment to wear when using acid or lye to get rid of a body."

"Okay, please tell me you're kidding?"

The Company wanted its people to learn new skills, but not _those_ kind of skills.

"Why would I be kidding?" Kirill said, brows pulling together. "You know as well as I do, this is an activity with serious risks."

Groaning, William massaged his face with his hands. He was getting too old for this shit.

"My God, Viko, _relax_," Kirill thundered. "Of _course_ I am kidding. I am going to show the team a video of what to do when somebody catches fire."

Stop, drop and roll—_so_ much better than crush, melt and flush. "I'm sure Ibanez'll appreciate that."

Kirill wrinkled his nose. "Ibanez can suck my balls," he muttered.

"Hey, no inappropriate sexual thoughts about our female co-workers, remember?"

"I don't think of Ibanez as a woman. She is simply an asshole with hair."

William snickered. And pretty terrible hair at that. "Go down to the range after work, pump out a few high-calibre rounds, imagine it's her face on the target. Always does the job for me."

"I might just do that." Kirill pushed up out of his chair. "I would say thank you for lunch, but then I remember that I bought it." He dusted some crumbs from the front of his shirt. "Are you still coming over tomorrow night?"

"Book Club night. You bet your ass I am."

"What worthy book are the ladies reading this month?"

"Something about Mennonite women. Mike gave me a summary, it sounded pretty depressing."

"Given the way the Bruins are playing, our night could be depressing as well."

"The Caps are only one game down. Still as many as four games to go. Don't be so ready to throw in the towel."

Kirill smirked. "Did I ever tell you that Jonathan in my team thinks Ovi is a spy?"

"He's not the only one," William said, pulling the box of salad towards him to hunt for another tomato. "There's a whole bunch of guys over in one of the Counter groups who pretty much think the same thing."

"Viko, Alexander Ovechkin is _not_ a spy."

"I dunno, man. Good friend of Vladimir Putin, lives in DC when he's playing, vacations in Moscow when he's not, mixes with the rich and famous in both cities. If that's not a great cover life for a spy, I don't know what the hell is." Certainly better than 'handyman, translator and writer'. Although, nobody in Berlin had ever uncovered their father—the only true measure of how good a cover life was.

Kirill wasn't convinced. "I think your imagination should stick to fantasies involving Miss Harlan."

"Yeah, cus that's what I _really_ need right now. More sinful thoughts about my new hire."

"What are you going to do about her?"

"The only thing I can."

"Which is?"

"Absolutely nothing at all."

That wasn't quite true—he would treat Samantha with respect, afford her every professional courtesy a team leader could, support her in her career, and keep his misbehaving libido well and truly to himself.

Kirill frowned. "You are not even going to engage in some harmless flirting?"

"Nope." In William’s book, there was no such thing.

"On your right hand be it," Kirill said, looking at him askance. "I will buy you a wrist support for your birthday."

"Won't be the weirdest thing you've ever bought me."

Kirill made for the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused and turned back. "Viko, you _do_ realize, there may be another solution?"

"To what?"

"To your Samantha problem."

Suspecting a trap, William warily asked, "What's that?"

"Instead of waiting for the distraction to pass, you could actively work it out of your system. In a way that you and Michelle would enjoy."

"Not quite following you there."

"You know—Kirill raised his brows at him—_"actively work it out_."

"Still not following."

Kirill brought up a hand to rub his eyes with his thumb and index finger. "Mother of God, Viko, how did you _ever_ manage to father two children?"

Accidentally, as it happened—a Cooper-Orlov family talent. "Kir, you and I are obviously on completely different pages here, cus I _honestly_ have no idea what you're saying."

"I mean that you should go home and fuck your wife," Kirill almost hollered.

William felt heat rise on his cheeks. _Actively_, his brother had said. How could he not have understood that? What kind of intelligence analyst was he? He cleared his throat. "Right. _That_."

"_That_, he says," Kirill muttered, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Surprisingly, the idea had some merit. "But…"

Kirill brought up a silencing finger. "No buts, Viko. We are talking about intercourse here, not thermonuclear physics."

"But wouldn't it be kind of disloyal?" William said, ignoring the finger.

"What, thinking about another woman while you are having sex with Michelle?"

"Yeah."

"I don't think so. Apparently, it is extremely common, and pretty much everyone does it."

"Who the fuck told you that?"

"An article I read in _Cosmopolitan_ last month." Kirill's voice took on what William could only describe as a scholarly tone. "It said that fantasizing about someone else during sex is completely normal, and can actually help when there is a lack of arousal in the woman, or the man has some kind of sexual dysfunction."

Jesus. Doctor Orlov was in the room.

"Are _you_ suffering from sexual dysfunction?" William drily asked.

"Certainly not," said Kirill, affronted. "But that is not why I read the article."

"So, you're telling me that when we have sex, Mike's probably thinking about someone else as well?"

"I will bet you a month's wages she sometimes imagines she is having sex with Brad Pitt or George Clooney instead."

William shook his head. "Matt Damon."

"Sorry?"

"She's not really into Pitt or Clooney," William explained. "She's more of a Matt Damon girl. If she was gonna fantasize about anyone, it would be him."

"But he is so…" Kirill trailed off, nose wrinkling, searching for suitable words.

"Ordinary looking?" William offered.

"Ordinary looking, yes."

William shrugged. "Guess sexual attraction's a personal thing."

"She married you, so that goes without saying."

"Kir, you _do_ realize, if you're trying to insult me for my looks, you just insulted yourself as well?"

Kirill huffed. "My point is, you should not allow this thing with Samantha to cause you distress. Go home and make love to your wife until you pass out or your cock starts to glow in the dark. By the time you are done, I am quite sure your distraction will have passed."

This was hands down the strangest and weirdest conversation William had ever had with his twin. Or, with anyone, for that matter. It wasn't bad advice, as such. Just… strange. "We _do_ have a good sex life, you know," William said. "Me and Mike."

"I know you do."

"Okay, do I even _want_ to know what that means?"

"I lived in your house for almost six months. I am a light sleeper with excellent hearing, and you don't fuck as quietly as you think."

William felt himself blush again all the way to the tips of his ears. "Okay, yeah, _now_ this is awkward."

"But you walked in on Kate blowing me on your living room rug, so I suppose that evened it out."

"Stop, please," William pleaded, raising surrendering hands. He'd forgotten the incident with the rug. Now, the memory of what he'd seen came back to him all over again. It was almost as disturbing as the earlier image with the couch. Actually, _more_ disturbing, since the thing with the rug had actually happened.

"I will say no more today." Kirill grinned and flashed his brows. "But I expect a _blow-by-blow_ account tomorrow."

"You're expecting me to try this _tonight_?"

"You have something better to do with your time? Mow the lawn? Take out the trash? Wash a couple of piles of laundry?"

The first two, no, the third one, yes. Michelle had been nagging him to deal with the laundry since Sunday.

Hmm.

They'd never fucked in the laundry room. Some cartoons and a plate of dinosaur chicken nuggets should keep Drusha and Tania at bay long enough to give it a try. Or, they could wait until the kids were in bed. But would the sound of the washer cover the noise?

William grinned to himself.

That all depended—how much noise were they planning on making?


End file.
